Thirty long years in coming

After planning any sizable project for some time, when the day finally arrives and the anticipation is over, it’s normal I guess to be in disbelief for a short while, to undergo a short spell of shock at the eventual realization of a sought-after goal.

Imagine then, sitting in a pseudo English pub, in a crowded terminal 3 at London’s Heathrow airport, surrounded by people of every nationality and nursing a Bloody Mary at 9am, realising I’m about to actually attempt something I’ve wanted to do since I was about 10 years old.

This isn’t the first time I’ve tried this mind you, but they were different. Even before the Abu Dhabi misadventure, there was the Australia episode. Having been persuaded to leave London and buy a one-way ticket to Sydney following the UK economic collapse and my subsequent redundancy, I found myself one April afternoon in 2002 once again at Heathrow airport.

“You’re so lucky,” they said. “You could just go and live in Australia without any visa,” they said. And so it went…and at the time, it seemed like a good idea.

The last few weeks were spent condensing my entire life into three large holdalls and not really focusing as much as perhaps I should’ve been on my imminent departure. There I was, standing in front of the check in attendant and facing about £300 in excess baggage fees if I wanted to take all three holdalls onto the flight. A drastic repack was desperately required, since I hadn’t budgeted for this extra expense. So in an empty corner of the Departures area at terminal 3, watched by my parents who had to come to see me off and a few dear friends, I pulled everything out onto the floor and further condensed my life into just one bag.

This process is actually a very healthy one to undertake from time to time. There’s even what’s called a Full Moon Ritual where one purges one’s nonessential personal possessions, if you go in for that sort of thing. However, even if you do, the cold, hard floor of Heathrow airport is probably not the best place to perform a spiritual Spring clean.

Meanwhile, managing to avoid the attention of a TV crew who were pouncing on hapless passengers for another enthralling episode of Heathrow Uncovered and would probably have given a major organ to capitalize on my calamity, I checked my now solitary bag in, said goodbye to my sobbing family and friends and set off in search of the Security section. I was so stressed by this point that the extent of my focus was simply to get on the damn plane and after another minor setback at the currency exchange I finally found my seat, sat back and breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly I had nothing to do and no one to talk to. My mind started to process what was actually going on: I was on a one-way flight to Sydney in an attempt to start a new life. Everything would be different, all my little comforts would be on the other side of the world, there would be 11 hours difference between me and my family meaning I wouldn’t even be able to call them when I wanted to. I tried to shake all this off by flicking through the in-flight entertainment to see what was on. Ah, an episode of Frasier. Excellent. At least this will bring a smile to my face and take my mind off things.

It turned out to be the episode where Niles and Daphne finally get together, possibly the most emotional episode of its entire 11 season run. I started blubbing like a baby. In fact, I cried all the way to Hong Kong.

So here I am, attempting something not too dissimilar. Of course things are very different now; I’ve put a lot of time, effort and energy into researching this move, but I will miss my river-facing Wapping apartment, my bed and my Egyptian cotton sheets, my little cat Tiddles and most of all my wife. At least I didn’t cry on the plane. Although, as is seemingly customary in these situations, when the car took me to Heathrow at 7:30am, the driver insisted on listening to SadSong FM resulting in more than one meltdown on my journey through West London.

So why Los Angeles you might wonder. There’s the obvious reasons like the weather and the ocean, but having lived in London for over 17 years (minus three-and-a-half years in the Middle East and one in Sydney) the idea of being in a city where the daily commute is spent in the comfort of your own car and not crammed in a tiny, smelly metal tube half a mile underground is actually appealing. Perhaps that sounds odd.

And while you’re in your car you get to drive through so many incredible little neighbourhoods, like West Hollywood or Los Feliz or Silverlake, along roads like Wilshire, Santa Monica or Melrose and you see quite literally thousands of little local businesses, shops, bars and restaurants. From Joe’s Vacuum Repairs to Rockaway Records, from Secret HQ Comics to Sam’s Secondhand Bookstore, from the Rustic Canyon Restaurant to the Pink Taco Mexican Bar & Grill. You might never remember where they all are and it’s unlikely you’ll get a chance to write it down before the traffic starts moving again, but it makes you feel like there is so much to explore. And that is why I love Los Angeles.

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